


Storm Pulse

by milfplaza



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Masturbation, Religious Guilt, general angst and minor self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 11:24:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16016900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milfplaza/pseuds/milfplaza
Summary: Much to her confusion and appall, Yasha finds herself inexplicably drawn to and utterly captivated by the violent thunderstorm outside her window.





	Storm Pulse

**Author's Note:**

> warning: this fic contains minor instances of self-harm, themes of religious guilt, and just general yasha-centric angst. if any of those things are not up your alley, feel free to click away.

_Crack._

A flash of lightning illuminated the cloudy night sky, throwing light on the drops of rain hitting the window of an inn. Yasha shifted uncomfortably in her bed at the sound, trying her best not to disturb the other woman sleeping peacefully beside her. Usually, the party wouldn’t have minded braving the weather and spending a night under the tents, but after an unfortunate run in with a pack of owlbears that left many of them injured, everyone unanimously decided to find respite under a more solid roof.

Yasha turned over to watch the raging tempest through the small window across the room. She loved storms. There was something about the ferocious weather that reaffirmed that wild, primal part of her nature. She wanted nothing more than to be outside right now, in the middle of it all, thrashed about by the violent gales and merciless sheets of rain. Yasha could feel it calling, the tugging in her stomach, the gnawing at her bones. It was a restlessness that could not be settled by laying on her back and willing sleep to chase it away. It required action.

Yasha was about throw her tunic back on over her breast band and leave the room, when the bed shifted beside her and she remembered what was keeping her there in the first place.

Beauregard was arching her back, stretching in her sleep, muttering something drowsily and too quiet for Yasha to hear. She had taken the brunt of the damage in their previous fight and had come out of it bruised and bloody, much to Yasha’s unease. Few understood the risks and thrills of combat the way Yasha did, but she still felt a twinge of panic flitting around her chest whenever she saw Beau slumped on the ground, nearly unconscious. Perhaps she was growing soft. The party’s resident healers had assured her that Beau was going to be fine, that the most beneficial thing for her now was to let her body rest and recover, but Yasha had made up her mind to stay with her for the night in case anything went wrong. No one else she cared for was going to die, not on her watch.

The sound of a long, quiet yawn momentarily joined the din of the storm outside and Yasha turned to look at Beauregard, still sleeping soundly. Her hair was loose and splayed over the pillow, a few strands falling over her face. She was only wearing her breast band and smallclothes, apart from the bandages on her abdomen and wrapped around her thigh and arms. Her eyelids were fluttering and a little bit of drool had gathered at the corner of her parted lips. Yasha smiled as she watched Beau’s chest rise and fall evenly with every breath. The way her face, usually held in a permanent look of displeasure, gave way to a soft, completely unperturbed expression was so unexpectedly endearing to Yasha. It completely washed away whatever little bit of resentment she felt in not being able to join the howling of angry winds outside.

This thing they had, this mutual acknowledgment of each others’ affection and enjoyment of each other’s company and touch was somewhat new territory for both of them. Yasha thought she would hate it, the feeling tied to something more than her sword and her oath to the Stormlord, but she didn’t. The nights they were together, she found herself completely present, enjoying everything Beau gave to her, and the nights they were apart left Yasha feeling strangely bereft and lonely. It was all very unexpected.

Outside the window, the sky shook again and Yasha could feel the grumbling of thunder deep in her bones. Not always, but sometimes in times like this, she could her the voice of the Stormlord whispering in her ear, requesting her service, collecting on the life of unyielding devotion she had pledged to him. That was where part of the restlessness came from, she supposed. An incoming storm would bring with it the promise of an open road and the chance to exercise that part of herself that usually had to be contained in civil society. In the past, Yasha had always yearned for when the skies darkened and the air turned cool and heavy with moisture, and was dismayed at the times when she didn’t hear that familiar call to action. But, now… things were different now.

Now, whenever she heard the dull roar of thunder in the distance or felt the first raindrops on her face and head, a sense of apprehension joined the hunger and thrill swirling around in her body. Not enough strong enough to keep her from her duties, not at all. But strong enough to cause her to feel a little pang in her heart and place a gentle kiss on Beau’s forehead whenever she left their bed before the sun was in the sky.

Yasha closed her eyes tight, trying her best to block out the soft noises and movements of the sleeping woman beside her and focus instead on the sounds of the storm. She could not hear the Stormlord’s voice in the cries of the gales or the pitter of the rain and was set somewhat at ease. There would be no leaving tonight. But even so, Yasha still felt a peculiar force drawing her towards the small window across the room. The impatient thrumming of her mind and body were not so easily put to rest. In fact, that desire for violence and action typically ignited and quelled by the arrival of a tempest only grew in prominence. As relieved as she was to be able to stay at least one more night, there was no satisfying the part of herself that groaned in protest, hungry for something primal and free.

Yasha hated feeling contained. Even in the stifling comfort of the inn, she could feel her muscles ache to be utilized beneath her itchy skin. She tossed and turned about the bed, but every crack of lightning made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end and demanded her attention. There was no way she was going to fall asleep like this. She had to do something.

Gingerly, Yasha got off the bed, keeping her movements as slow as possible, making her way toward the shuttering window across the room. She moved with a delicacy and care that didn’t quite match her size; Beauregard needed the rest desperately and Yasha didn’t want any sudden shifting of weight or creak of the floorboards to disturb her slumber. She wouldn’t leave, not when Beauregard was still weak and recovering, but perhaps getting a little bit closer to the insistent storm would settle her restless body.

The air temperature surrounding the window was noticeably lower than the rest of the room, causing Yasha, clad only in her breast band and trousers, to break out in goosebumps. The windowpane was cool to the touch and Yasha could feel the force of the rain vibrating through the thin glass when she placed a careful hand on it. To experience the gentle _pat, pat, pat_ of every drop against the window’s exterior felt… strange. It was grounding, affixing. Something about physically feeling the elements of the storm against her hand and echoing throughout her person yielded a muted, yet pleasurable sensation Yasha didn’t have the facilities to explain. When she pulled her hand away, examining the large handprint left on the film of condensation on the glass, she was surprised by how much she missed the feeling.

Tearing her eyes away from the mark on the foggy window, Yasha turned back to look at Beauregard. The bedsheet tangled around her legs and ankles indicated her efforts to kick it off of herself while she was sleeping. Yasha had only recently come to discover just how much Beau moved around in her sleep, tossing and turning and muttering, caught in vivid dreams she claimed to never be able to remember. She had also come to discover that once Beau was asleep, getting her up was a small battle all on its own. It was near impossible to rouse her from bed in the morning without the promise of food, sex, or some kind of danger. In the past, this had resulted in Yasha arriving to breakfast late and starving, with skin flushed pink and a somewhat irritable demeanor, while Beau practically skipped in behind her, uncharacteristically chipper, apologizing for her tardiness and loudly proclaiming to the rest of the group that she “already ate”.

Now, however, Yasha was suddenly very appreciative of Beauregard's general unwillingness to be stirred from her state of repose. With little effort, Yasha turned the slightly rusted hatch on the window, pushing it open with a gentle creak. No sooner had the glass given way to the swirling night sky, than Yasha felt a heavy gust of wind push against her face and through her hair. It was chilling and fierce and just what she had been missing. She let out a quiet exhale of breath after the first drops of rain, sharp and cold like thrown pebbles, hit her skin. It all felt so good, so natural. A low groan of thunder sounded above her and Yasha actually smiled.

It wasn’t her usual smile, the gentle, subtle curling at the corners of her mouth reserved for when she saw a new flower for her book or when one of her friends did something particularly sweet or ridiculous. No, it was something much different. Her mouth was wide and tight and her top lip curled up, exposing a row of white teeth. Her mismatched eyes were narrowed and open, seeming unbothered by the stinging of the rain. It was halfway between a grin and a snarl, an unbridled expression matched only by one of her rages.

“Yes,” Yasha found herself repeating softly, a sigh of breath escaping through clenched teeth. “Yes.”

Her pulse quickened with every raindrop that rolled down the tip of her nose and collarbone. The dusty, earthy scent of fresh water and petrichor, mixed with the palpable buzz of static in the air invigorated Yasha’s senses. This wasn’t the overwhelming uproar of being caught in a savage, twisting force of nature she couldn’t control. It was a more intimate sensation, not close enough to the storm to let it overtake her, but too far to feel any sort of wild catharsis. The whole thing was curiously pleasurable and entirely enticing.

A sudden, loud, crash of thunder that shook the sky, followed by an incoming sheet of heavy rain startled Yasha, causing her to flinch and drop her expression. She shut her eyes tight and looked down, eyes suddenly blurry and burning with the persisting drops of water, her messy, damp hair tumbling over her face. None of this made any sense. _Why am I… why does this feel… like this_ , she asked herself, gripping the windowsill with clenched fists. It was difficult for her, even just in her head, to string together a plausible description of what exactly she felt overcome with.

 _Deep breaths_ , she told herself. Wrangling and dealing with emotions had always been a difficult task. _Take your time. Try and sort this out._

Yasha loved storms. She loved the violence and power behind every gust of wind and tremble of the sky. She loved seeing her own nature reflected in ferocity of the environment and the outlet for it the Stormlord had granted her. That was nothing new. What was new was the physical pleasure, her body’s response to the changing of the weather that far surpassed the purely mental release from murky thoughts storms had previously afforded her. The way the thunder reverberated throughout her body, the way the hair on the back of her neck stood up with every crack of lightning, it all felt so real and good. Yasha found herself tingling all over in the face of its intensity.

_Crack._

A beam of lightning that sounded like a cracking whip had Yasha shuddering. Her pale fingers had turned even whiter where they were gripping tight to the windowsill.

There was a certain electricity that hung in the air, she felt it hum through her veins and prickle across her skin. For whatever reason, the lightning had stirred up a soft buzzing of energy that darted through Yasha’s extremities and began softly humming between her legs.

Oh. _Oh._

Her eyes widened. This was very new indeed.

Until now, there was nothing explicitly sexual about the specific release the storms had provided her with. But Yasha could feel how sensitive and responsive every wailing gust and splash of rain had made her. The slightest chill raised her goosebumps and sent her body shivering. She still didn’t understand any of it, but that curiosity made her bold.

Slowly, almost fearfully, Yasha let go of the windowsill, bringing a quivering hand to her cheek, and let out a gasp of breath she didn’t know she was holding in.

Her face was wet and oddly warm beneath her cold, clammy hand. Droplets of water were dripping down her face, and Yasha could feel the way her dark eye makeup was smudged and running over her cheekbones. The simple action of touching her face should not have been as stimulating as it was, but for whatever reason, it left her craving more. She quickly drew her other hand towards herself, and began rubbing circles into her cheeks. Her skin was so pleasantly smooth and slippery with rain and she chased the tingling feeling her hands left in their wake down her neck, over her collarbone, toward the dampening fabric of her breast band.

Completely lost in the sensation of it all, Yasha continued, dragging her fingers over her chest, gasping when she reached unexpectedly pert nipples. She hadn’t anticipated getting this worked up over something as simple as the weather. But every flick of her nipples, even through her breast band, sent bursts of pleasure straight between her legs. The dangerous growling of the storm in the distance only heightened that hunger for more. Offhandedly, Yasha sent out a silent bit of praise to the Stormlord for bringing her such an intense, unpredictable source of gratification.

The dark sky convulsed with a shattering crash of thunder and Yasha froze.

Oh no.

Oh, gods, no.

What had she done?

Yasha drew her hands away from her body as if they’d been shocked. It felt wrong, dirty and blasphemous and wrong to touch herself right now, to get off on the slick feel of the rain running down her skin. She chastised herself, disturbed and sickened by her own desire.

How could she find such perverse pleasure in something so sacred and so revered by her deity?

How dare she, after all the Stormlord had saved her from and all the guidance he had provided her, debase herself like this?

What kind of person did that make her?

“Disgusting,” she whispered at herself, as her throat choked up. “Pathetic, stupid, stupid, stupid,” she continued, tangling her hands tightly in her hair, near her temples and pulling until it hurt. Her voice was wavering and her eyes began to water. She sent out silent, pleading apologies toward the horizon line. She hadn’t done anything, really. She had just felt things, and thought about things, but caught herself before such sacrilege could materialize into something more. Surely that had to count for something. Outside the open window, thunder rumbled threateningly in the distance. Yasha felt it echo deep in her stomach and settle at the juncture of her thighs.

 _Go away_ , she pleaded to herself. _Stop it, stop it, please_. She waited for the feeling to pass, as all random, fleeting moments of arousal often did, but it persisted.

Frustrated, Yasha took in a sharp hiss of breath between clenched teeth, stiffening her jaw and muscles, steeling herself. She could still fix this, she could still make everything right again. Then, she released the fistfuls of hair, wrapped her arms around her body, and raked her nails across her back, hard. _No_ , she scolded as she swallowed a cry of pain. _You don’t get to cry, not this time._ A tiny trickle of blood escaped from thin, red marks that began where her wings would emerge from, just below her shoulders, and ended at the base of her upper arms. _Monsters like you don’t get to cry._

Yasha thought the pain would help. That the relief that came afterwards would be enough to settle the pounding of blood in her ears and between her legs. That it would at least distract her from the buzz in the air that sent her head spinning and the lashing winds that made her nipples strain through the drenched material of her breast band. But, to her deepest chagrin, Yasha’s body still shuddered and her already dripping entrance contracted around nothing with every flicker of lightning in the sky.

In the past, whenever Yasha’s mind was overwhelmed and muddled with too many thoughts and incomprehensible emotions, she found that a little bloodshed provided the perfect release. Swinging a sword, cutting through armor and flesh and bone, momentarily succumbing to violent, bestial urges without regard for convention or reason was oddly cleansing. But here, confined to an oppressively small room and completely transfixed to an open window, Yasha’s primal instincts and pent up aggression had manifested themselves in a different way. One that the raw stinging down her shoulders and arms could not make disappear.

It made no sense to her. She had always felt particularly connected to storms, both due to their significance to her deity, and a personal fascination with all things in nature untamed and unbowing to the will of man. But this… this was something different. Never before did the reverberations of thunder in her bones or the patterns of rainfall syncing up with her heartbeat stir up this strange hunger for touch.

Of course, there were other factors as well. There was the containment, the restlessness that came from having four walls and a roof encapsulating her and leaving no room for anything but stillness. Being cooped up made her anxious and itchy, desperate for any sort of out of body experience to take her mind off of whatever confines her situation consisted of. There was also the fact that it had been a good number of weeks since Yasha’s last orgasm. Now, sex wasn’t something that Yasha felt she needed on a consistent basis. She was nowhere near as charged as, well, _certain people_ she could name and saw no shame in reliving that pressure herself, with her own gentle, practiced fingers if she needed it. But she did have a generous sexual appetite when push came to shove, and after enough prolonged deprivation, became just as insatiable and driven as anyone else.

Had Yasha had the presence of mind to consider those factors, perhaps she could have afforded herself a little less torment and deliberation. But proficiency in identifying and discerning emotions, including her own, was something Yasha lacked. They were difficult enough to make sense of on a regular day, nevermind the current howling of the storm or the complete mess of sensations and contradictions of her body, or the hateful reprimanding voice in her mind. There were so few people she opened up to, and even fewer of whom she trusted for guidance in those matters of the head and the heart that she couldn’t make sense of herself. So, Yasha returned her hands to the windowsill, shifted her gaze up to the ever darkening sky, and began to pray.

“Are you… are you out there?” she croaked, her voice raspy with arousal and holding back tears. “Can you hear me?”

There was no response other than the whistling of winds and even falling of the rain.

“Are you disappointed in me?” Yasha asked again, to no response. She began to pick at the skin of her nail beds with her thumbs and forefingers, slightly prunny from exposure to the rain. “I didn’t mean to upset you, I promise I just--” she began, choking on a sob that threatened to escape her throat but stifled it down. “I don’t know why I feel this way, I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Yasha listened, closing her eyes tight and tried to focus again on the Stormlord, this time searching for a much more specific response. There were times she could hear his voice in her mind, in her dreams, even in the air, when it was time for her to fulfill her duties to him. After minutes of concentration, trying to pick out his presence among the dull roaring of the tempest, wincing with every drop of rain that hit and rolled down her sensitive skin, Yasha let out strangled noise of guilt and frustration and fell to her knees.

“Do you hate me?” she rasped, her voice barely audible.

Silence.

“If I… if I do this… this sick, wicked thing,” Yasha spat out the words in a whisper, hating herself all the more as she said them. “If I give into to this, this feeling and… and…” Her voice faltered around shallow breaths, as she struggled to say it aloud. “... And _pleasure myself_ at your feet, will you forsake me?”

Silence.

 _You stupid, stupid girl_ , a voice in her head yelled, rich with bile and loathing. _He’s forsaken you already._

Yasha collapsed her face in her hands, shaking her head back and forth.

No, no, no. That was impossible. He couldn’t have left her, not after the months of devotion and loyalty she had shown him, not after everything she had denied herself of in order to follow the path he had laid out for her.

Hot tears rolled down her face, joining the drops of icy rain, as her entire body trembled.

Then, another voice sounded in her head, different than the one before. _Sometimes a storm is just a storm, it said, softly._

Yasha bit down on her bottom lip, muffling any sound of her crying.

 _You shouldn’t be ashamed_ , the voice said again, _Feeling good is not a sin._

 _Twisted, wretched degenerate,_ hissed the first voice. _Defiling his holy domain with these vile desires. Have you no shame, no soul?_

“I… I… I’m sorry,” Yasha breathed, to no one in particular. Outside, the wind began to howl through rattling trees and the soft smattering of rain started to pick up again. Yasha caught herself absently rubbing her thighs together in response, a futile effort to quell the persistent aching in her clit. She stopped immediately, and felt her whole body twitch with disappointment.

 _Rage, pleasure-- these things you feel don’t make you a monster,_ murmured that same, soft voice. _These things make you alive._

Somewhere past the horizon, a crash of thunder sounded. After a moment or two of slow deliberation, Yasha tentatively pulled her hands away from her face, resting them on trembling knees.

“Kord, forgive me,” she whispered to the swirling sky above her, “Please, please, forgive me for this.”

And with that, Yasha swallowed down her pride, closed her eyes tight, and carefully brought her hands back to her chest.

The second her hands made contact with her breast band, Yasha felt a shiver run down the length of her spine. It felt so, mind numbingly good to be able to touch again. She took a breast in each palm and groped herself hard, trying her best to hold back tiny groans of pleasure. The sensation of cold, soaking wet fabric rubbing against stiff nipples combined with the heavy pressure of her all too eager hands was almost too much.

This wasn’t how she usually like it. Yasha prefered to take her time when she touched herself, drawing out her pleasure with gentle, deliberate touches until her body was begging for release. Perhaps it was the long period of denial, or the way the weather made her strangely receptive to any sort of contact, or the underlying sense of guilt and self loathing that coursed through her with every movement, but things were different tonight. Whatever the reason, Yasha needed it rough and hard and now.

Impatiently, Yasha slipped her hands under her breast band, inhaling sharply at the skin to skin contact. Her breasts felt tender and smooth as she continued her harsh ministrations, too engrossed in the feeling of it all to bother unwrapping the layer of clothing completely. The prunny, waterlogged texture of her fingertips, tugging on impossibly hard nipples sent a spark of arousal straight between her legs. Every rough brush and pull of calloused hands was almost overstimulating. Subconsciously, Yasha parted her knees and began to rock her hips back and forth, desperately trying to get herself off on nothing but air.

Another low grumble of thunder sounded, and Yasha could feel it in her throat and chest and let out a moan along with it. What she was doing was so, sickeningly wrong and she knew it, but it didn’t make the rain streaming down her face and arms feel any less good or halt the hungry pace at which she groped her chest. She hadn’t even realized when that wicked, snarling smile returned to her face.

“Oh, yes,” Yasha gritted out softly, through gnashing teeth, as a particularly vicious gust of wind blew through the window, tousseling her hair and chilling the room. “Please, yes.”

But after a few minutes, the tugging on her nipples and palming of her chest began to lose that addicting, electric feel it once had. The harder she tried, the more rapid and merciless her movements, only served to dull the once encompassing pleasure until her breasts began to bruise and ache.

With a grunt of frustration, Yasha trailed a hand downwards, momentarily stopping to stroke and lightly scratch at the muscle and softness of her abdomen, before finally reaching the waist of her trousers.

Just then, she paused abruptly. If she went any further, there would be no going back. What she had been doing was one thing, but to continue, to bring herself to completion at the hallowed mercy of the storm, would be something else entirely. No amount of prayer or acts of devotion could make up for this. Whether the Stormlord could see her or not, Yasha would have to carry with her the knowledge of her blasphemy forever.

_Crack._

A bolt of lightning, louder and brighter than any before it, pierced the sky, and Yasha could practically feel its strike directly against the throbbing between her legs, resonating there and spreading to every crevice and pore of her body.

Suddenly, her mind was made up.

With one hand clutching her knee to steady herself, she brought the other one down between quivering thighs, cupping her hand experimentally through her trousers.

It was electrifying.

Yasha could feel her clit give a twitch against her palm. That tiny moment of relief was everything. The tension in her shoulders and back loosened slightly and her jaw relaxed enough for a light exhale of breath to freely leave her mouth. Yasha pressed a little harder, giving her hips something solid to rut against. Even through two layers of fabric, the feeling of actual contact where she had been needing it most was absurdly satisfying.

She continued bucking into her hand, chasing the feeling she had so vehemently tried to ignore with sharp, consistent thrusts. The hand that had been on her knee was brought to the floor, balancing Yasha with splayed fingers, so that she could find the angle that yielded the most pleasure. As she moved, Yasha could feel the way her entire core squirmed, releasing little sparks of gratification with every tremble. The ever present rain continued to fall, heavier than a moment ago.

For a while, Yasha continued her movements, rocking into her hand, relishing the even, firm pressure of her palm against her aching clit, her open knees digging into the hard, wooden floor. For a blissful couple of seconds, it almost felt like she could come from this. That if she ground down with a little more fervor, if the heel of her hand was a little bit harder on that sensitive nub, she would be met with a divine release. And Yasha tried, pressing her lips together tightly to muffle her grunts of exertion, riding her hand at a rapid pace, twisting and aiming her hips so her clit made small half circles against a static palm. The closer she thought she got, however, the more elusive her orgasm became, until she found herself chasing nothing at all.

Yasha growled, a dangerous sound from low in her throat, as she began to untie the laces of her trousers. At one time, the unecessarly layers of fabric had a kind of delicious, teasing effect, muting the contact with such a sensitive part of her body, the numb, almost-enough pleasure driving her wild. Now it only got in the way. She shucked the clothing down around her ankles, and sat on the floor with her knees up and feet planted, clad only in a half unwrapped breast band and smallclothes.

Maybe it was the removal of a cold, wet article of clothing or the steadily rising temperature of her internal body heat, but Yasha felt a little warmer now. Not by much; she was still shivering and goosebumps were still peppered across her entire body, but she no longer noticed the threatening chill that had hung in the air. She stroked her hands over her bare thighs, warming them up, before moving forward.

Cautiously, not wanting to catch her body off guard by the sudden increase in direct stimulation, Yasha ran a single finger up her smallclothes. Immediately, she brought a fist to her mouth, biting down on her own knuckles as she let out a broken, strangled cry. She couldn’t remember the last time a simple drag of a finger felt this good. Yasha explored herself a little, getting acclimated to the feeling. Her smallclothes were completely ruined with arousal. She could feel where her wetness mingled with the drops of rain, adding a coat of thicker liquid to the rain-soaked fabric and skin of her inner thighs. She prodded a finger at her covered entrance, shivering as it tightened and released, growing warmer and wetter with every motion.

 _More, more_ , Yasha’s body goaded, and she complied, adding a second finger to her careful explorations. She traced along the different parts of herself through her smallclothes slowly, gently rubbing and teasing her dripping entrancing, stroking up and down her folds, eventually reaching her throbbing clit. Yasha spread her legs instinctively and clamped down on her knuckles harder, almost drawing blood, to brace herself.

A high, needy sound that got lost against her hand and the hissing of the wind escaped her as Yasha pressed two fingers against her clit. Her mind went completely white with pleasure and her hips bucked up subconsciously in search of more. She began making tight circles, the firm pressure of her fingertips and the slightly scratchy material of her smallclothes incredibly stimulating where she needed it most. Yasha chased the sensations, occasionally pausing to give the bundle of nerves a little pinch to throw herself off which caused sudden jolts throughout her entire body.

After a while of holding herself up in that position, Yasha’s abs began to forcibly strain and shudder, and she lay down on her back, continuing to pleasure herself from there. She tried rubbing her clit with the heel of her hand, freeing her fingers to wriggle and prod around her entrance, desperate to find ways for more stimulation. The new pressure was a welcome thing, but Yasha found it difficult to elicit that same concentrated pleasure in two places at the same time with only one hand.

Widening her stance and spreading her legs even more, Yasha released the hand that had been clenched tight in her mouth, now covered in saliva and bite marks, and brought it between her legs. She could feel the familiar stirring in the pit of her stomach that signaled a steadily approaching climax and exhaled on a wavering breath.

“C’mon, c’mon,” she muttered, her head and feet forcefully pushing down against the wooden floor. She began to rub at herself erratically through her drenched smallclothes, feeling the muscles beneath tremble. “A-ah, almost… nngh…” Yasha ground her teeth, somewhat dulling the sounds of her low moaning and inciting words. She wasn’t big on talking during sex, but apparently tonight was full of exceptions. Her thighs begun to shake menacingly as she thrusted her hips up faster. Her hands worked quicker still, frantically moving back and forth over her clit and circling her quivering entrance. It was so good, so hard and careless and rough…

… Until, suddenly, it wasn’t.

Those delicious sensations somehow got lost in the excitement of it all. It was almost like Yasha had completely sped by her own pleasure.

“W-wha…” she gasped incoherently, snapping her eyes open in confusion. She put more pressure on her swollen clit through the fabric, but she felt no pleasure, just a dull, nauseating stinging. Yasha pulled away immediately, taken aback. What kind of cruel trick of nature was this? She hadn’t come yet; the pit of her stomach was still stirring with arousal and she could still feel her pulse hammering away between her legs. How was it possible her orgasm completely evaded her for a second time?

_May this be your punishment, you sick, depraved girl. May you tremble and burn with no hope of deliverance for your indecent transgressions against his divine law._

Yasha did her best to block out the ominous rumbling of the storm and the spiteful hissing voice in the back of her mind.

“Okay, okay, okay,” she repeated, taking a deep, shaky breath, settling herself. This… this was fine. Things like this happened to women all the time. Bodies were weird sometimes. It didn’t have to mean anything. She could build herself back up, she could get there again. Everything was fine.

Yasha tried to relax herself, taking deep breaths through her diaphragm. She closed her eyes, trying to focus on physical sensations, on what felt good. The little bit of rain that drizzled and rolled in little beads down her flushed, sensitive skin, that was good. The occasional gust of chilly air that washed over her, that was good. The pleasant thrumming of her clit that seemed to have returned as soon as it had left, that was very good. Yasha began to gently knead different parts of her body, her shoulders, her upper arms, her abdomen, her thighs, slowly reacquainting them to her touch.

Tentatively, Yasha brought a hand to waist of her smallclothes, silently pleading with her body not to betray her again before slipping it under. She didn’t touch anywhere yet, instead toyed softly with the patch of unruly curls down there, letting her body begin to twitch in anticipation. She waited a little longer, stroking her other hand up and down the planes of her abdomen and thighs, only daring to continue when she recognized that familiar electric feeling beginning to course through her veins.

With one more deep breath, Yasha brought an index finger down to her entrance and began a gentle pattern of swirling circles, barely grazing the flushed, drenched skin. Her entire body shivered and she let out a soft moan as the air left her lungs. The sheer pleasure of contact without any fabric barriers almost made Yasha lose control entirely. But still she held her ground, spreading the wetness she had gathered over her inner thighs with deliberate care.

She went a little further, adding more fingers and bringing them up to her folds. She then spread herself open, parting herself, exposing slick, sensitive skin before starting a series of light, teasing touches. Yasha willed her hips to stay in place as she stroked herself there, little puffs of air escaping parted lips in steady intervals.

Eventually, she paused and directed her attention toward her impatient, aching clit. After a dragging a torturously gentle finger from her entrance to tip a few times, causing her entire body to quake with expectancy, Yasha finally took the swollen nub between two fingers. Her back arched involuntarily and she actually whined at the pure, uninhibited contact. Drawing her pleasure out like this when every part of her begged for a quick release, especially after such long periods of delay and denial and stagnation, was almost sadistic. But Yasha simply didn’t trust her body not to shut down like before in the face of fast, rough touches.

She began pinching her clit between two knuckles, the pressure just enough to elicit little jolts of pleasure, before changing up the movement, stroking tiny spirals against the bundle of nerves. With the other hand, Yasha made her way to her neglected entrance and resumed the pattern of soft circles through dripping heat.

“O-oh,” she moaned softly, in response to the additional stimulation. This was good, this was very good. She stopped mediating the rocking of her hips, letting them rise and fall and move of their own accord, driven by mounting pleasure between her legs. She began to rub at her clit with more vigor, matching the pace her body seemed comfortable with. The sensation of calloused and waterlogged fingertips making tight patterns on her most sensitive and receptive area almost had Yasha coming right there. It didn’t take much longer for the stirring deep in her stomach to return.

“Oh, please… Ah, y-yes,” Yasha whimpered into the air, her voice soft and wrecked, her entire body shuddering and hitting against the ground with every rock of her hips. She flattened her hand against her core in order to give herself something to grind up against. “Just… nngh… just there, right there.” She moaned to herself, bringing the other hand back up to her chest, tugging and pulling at stiff, aching nipples like she always did to push herself over the edge when she was close.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Yasha murmured again, alternating between pressing her palm against her throbbing clit and kneading it with frenetic, desperate fingers, all the while twisting her hips frantically to get as much friction as possible. Her body began to twitch and tremble uncontrollably, signaling the approach of her orgasm. “S-so close… Ah… please, please, please.”

_Crack._

One flash of lightning that lit up the sky behind tightly closed eyelids and Yasha was gone. She came with a desperate, ruined cry, her climax searing through her body like electricity, leaving her a convulsing and shuddering mess on the floor. The aftershocks of her pleasure hit almost as hard, and Yasha turned over on her knees, riding them out by grinding herself against her stacked hands through her smallclothes. She was gasping for air, her breathing ragged and shallow, her entire body completely overwhelmed and fraught with such a violent release. The catharsis, the relief from all the agonizing sensations of mind and body, hit Yasha harder than she could have anticipated and she didn’t even notice when her eyes began to water.

Yasha was almost halfway to coming again, this time getting herself off against the solid pressure of her own knuckles, head bowed and legs spread, furiously riding her hands, when she heard a voice behind her.

“Yasha?”

Yasha froze and turned to see Beauregard, awake, looking at her with incredulous blue eyes full of confusion and concern. She watched as Beau’s expression shifted, her sleep heavy mind trying to put everything together. Yasha could only imagine what a mess she must have looked. Her face flushed pink, streaked with dark trails of makeup thanks to raindrops and tears, partially covered by a tangled mane of windblown hair. Her whole body glimmering with a sheen of sweat beneath the layer of rain water, covered only by a half undone breast band, smallclothes, and trousers around her ankles. The way she trembled with each weak breath, shivering and rubbing herself off on her own hands. Yasha felt the sudden urge to throw up.

“Were you just…” Beau asked, seemingly at a loss for words.

Yasha collapsed her face into her hands and burst out in sobs.

“Shit,” Beau said, rushing forward and kneeling beside her, pulling Yasha into a tight embrace. “Hey, hey, you’re alright, everything’s okay,” She began to card a hand through Yasha’s thick, wet hair, as the other woman began to cry into her shoulder. “Shh, shh, it’s okay, you’re okay.”

“No,” Yasha began, her body wracked with sobs, “No, no, no, you don’t understand.” She weakly thrashed about in Beau’s arms, half heartedly trying to break free, but was held firm. Without arousal clouding her brain, the realization of what she had just done became all the more clear. She had sinned, not only in the eyes of her deity and probably all of Exandria, but most likely in the eyes of Beau too. She would be disgusted, Yasha was sure, when she told her what she had done. She might even make her leave their room, and then Yasha would be alone again, now at the mercy of a god she just disgraced. She began to hyperventilate, choking on empty, ragged breaths.

“Breathe with me, okay? Beau said, pulling away to look right into her eyes. She took Yasha’s hands, still clammy and covered in arousal, in her own and brought them to her chest. Beau inhaled a long, steady breath and exhaled slowly through her mouth to demonstrate. “You feel that?” She asked, indicating the rise and fall of her chest. “That’s all you gotta do, just copy me, alright?”

Yasha hiccuped and nodded, in spite of herself. She didn’t deserve any of this, the gentle words, the reassurance. She tried to mimic the rhythm of Beau’s breathing as the other woman talked her through it, in a similar way Yasha had seen her do with Caleb whenever he lost control of his fires. The unadulterated concern in Beau’s voice only made Yasha’s guilt eat away at her more.

“I’m sorry,” Yasha sobbed, after a few deep breaths. She pulled her hands away from Beau and buried her face in them, avoiding her gaze. “I’m so, so, sorry.”

“Hey, hey, Yasha, look at me,” Beau said softly, holding Yasha’s head in her hands, bringing her covered face level with her own. “You have nothing to apologize for, okay? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Yasha shook her head back and forth and tried to swallow down her sobs, but ended up making a series of breathy, strained whimpers instead.

“C’mere,” Beau murmured, wrapping her arms around her, stroking up and down her back. “There you go, you’re alright.” She encouraged, when Yasha reluctantly brought her hands to Beau’s waist, holding her there timidly. For a while they held each other in silence, listening to the sound of each other’s breathing mix with those of the storm outside.

Minutes had passed before Beau spoke again. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, pulling away to wipe away some of the tears and runny, black makeup from Yasha’s face with a bandaged hand. “It’s totally not a problem if you don’t,” she added quickly, “It’s just, I don’t like to see you like this. You’ve got me here if you want me, alright?”

Yasha’s heart lurched. Beau was just so _kind_. She stroked Yasha’s cheek soothingly with her long, nimble fingers, scanning her intently with those piercing blue eyes. There was no trace anger or revulsion anywhere. Her features were wrought with worry and exhaustion, yes, but she wore a small, warm smile on her face that gave Yasha a tiny semblance of hope.

Yasha nodded, swallowing a tearful lump in her throat and closed her eyes, letting herself relax into Beau’s touch a little.

After a beat or two of silence, she spoke again. “I’m sorry I interrupted you.” Beau whispered softly.

Yasha frowned and blinked open her eyes. “You… what?”

“I… I just thought something might have been wrong. The storm was just really loud, you know, and I heard you make a noise, and… I wasn’t exactly sure what it was.” Beau told her, tucking a strand of hair that stuck to Yasha’s forehead behind her ear. “I was just afraid something had happened to you. Like, something bad or storm related or something. But, uh, I obviously intruded on a private moment and I’m sorry.”

“Oh, um, it’s okay,” Yasha replied, taken aback by Beau’s apology. “I was being a bit loud, I suppose.”

Beau nodded, almost to herself, and suddenly broke away from Yasha’s gaze. “Did you…um, you know, get to finish?” Her voice was very quiet now, and sounded guilty and somewhat embarrassed.

“I…” Yasha began, inadvertently recalling every detail of her violent climax, suppressing a shudder. “Yes, ah, a little before. What you saw, that was nothing, just… what comes after, you know.”

That seemed to make Beau feel a bit better and she looked up, returning Yasha’s gaze. “Oh, yeah, yeah, I get that. As long as I’m not leaving you hanging. I mean, like, I could help you out if you needed it, you know, but, uh, I’m glad I didn’t get in the way.” She said, nervously running a hand through her loose, sleep-mussed hair. When she spoke again, her voice was gentle and almost reverential: “You looked beautiful doing that, you know that right?”

Yasha’s entire body went rigid. No, no, Beau had it all wrong. There was nothing beautiful about her sin. It was wicked and perverse and debasing, and she was a vile person for having done it.

“You’re wrong,” Yasha told her gravely, her voice suddenly scratchy and shaking. “It was a terrible, ugly thing to do, and--” the words got caught in her throat before she could finish the sentence.

“What are you talking about?” Beau asked, confused. “Yasha, there’s nothing wrong with, you know, doing it yourself every once in a while. It’s totally normal. People do it all the time. You’re only human, or, well, something close to it.”

Yasha shook her head. “No, no, you don’t get it.” She told Beau, wishing she could make her understand without having to speak it aloud. “It was the storm. It just felt so good and…” She trailed off, feeling her eyes begin to well up with more tears.

Beau grabbed her hand and begun tracing geometric patterns on the back of it, soothing her and giving her something else to focus on. “It’s okay, take your time,” she reassured her. “What about the storm felt good?”

Yasha took a deep breath before daring to open her mouth. “Just, the rain on my skin, it was nice… The wind too. And I could feel the thunder, you know, in my bones, in my… um, well, inside me. I just couldn’t help myself.”

Beau began interlacing their fingers, the size difference between them apparent. “That doesn’t sound very ugly to me.”

“I… don’t you get it?” Yasha questioned, a little irritated now. “Storms are sacred to him, to the Stormlord, and… and I… I defiled myself, I sullied his name and his holy domain with my foul, base desires.” She spoke in harsh, fast whispers, seething with loathing. “After everything he’s done for me, the depths of hell he had saved me from, I repay him with this… this… this blasphemy.”

Yasha heard Beau make a noise, pained and distressed, deep in her throat, but she continued, the words flowing out of her now as she began to sob again.

“I _touched myself_ , don’t you understand? I took something so sacred and so holy to him and I… and I just spat all over it. And I liked it, Beau… that’s the worst part… I liked it so much, I didn’t listen when my body told me to stop… and I kept going.” Yasha began choking on the breath as it left her, her vision blurry with tears. “I… I kept going until I _came_ … I came as the lightning, as his lightning struck the sky… and I needed it so bad I didn’t even care. I don’t know why I did it, i-it’s never felt so good before, the storm… I just don’t understand why it felt like that, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Suddenly, Yasha felt a pair of arms around her, holding her close and tight as she trembled and cried, mournful, broken, sobs.

“Listen to me, Yasha,” Beau said in her ear, firm and dead serious. “There is nothing wrong with you, okay? Absolutely nothing.”

Yasha continued to cry against her shoulder in response. Beau just held her there, rocking her gently.

“I’m gonna close the window, alright? Is that good with you?” Beau asked. She felt Yasha nod her head up and down a few times and separated their bodies to twist back on the rusty hatch. Outside, the storm had waned into a soft drizzling.

Beau turned back to look at Yasha, usually so stoic and striking, collapsed on the floor of the inn, making wrecked whimpering noises as her bottom lip quivered. Her heart completely shattered in her chest.

“C’mon,” she said, crouching down and extending out a hand. “Let’s go to bed, okay? I’ll help you out of your clothes. They’re not gonna be too comfortable to sleep in.”

Unceremoniously and without protest, Yasha pulled herself up, and let Beau take her by her shaking hand and lead her back to bed.

She stayed silent, sitting up on the edge of the mattress, as Beau undressed her. She watched Beau pull her trousers off from around her ankles, followed by her smallclothes, before gently drying off her wet skin with a rag. Yasha winced when Beau reached her inner thighs, wiping away the residual, long forgotten arousal. Everything stung. Yasha had dark, blotchy marks forming on her shins and knees where she had pressed them into the ground, and her clit felt raw and bruised from the way she had abused it earlier. Her breasts were heavy and sore, her nipples ached painfully, and she had a pounding at the back of her head where it had been slammed against the floor. Yasha could hear Beau’s sharp intake of breath when she unwrapped her breast band to reveal the long trails of red searing across her back like broken wings, but Beau said nothing of it. She just left a soft, chaste kiss right between Yasha's shoulder blades, on the small patch of pale, unmarred skin before the angry lines began.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Yasha,” Beau whispered against her back. She could tell by the way Beau's voice wavered that she on the precipice of tears. “You gotta know that. And you have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, okay? Absolutely nothing.”

Yasha nodded, feeling Beau wrap her bandaged arms around her neck from behind and rest her head on her shoulder. Her body was invitingly warm against Yasha’s damp, chilly skin.

“You say it now.” Beau breathed, her voice barely audible.

Yasha closed her eyes and brought her hands up to hold onto Beau’s arms. They were shaking too. She listened for any remnants of the storm, but heard nothing but the mellow sounds of Beau’s even breathing. Everything was quiet. Yasha let herself be comforted by the waves of welcome silence before softly whispering back:

“There… there’s nothing wrong with me.”

**Author's Note:**

> congrats on getting through twenty pages of my messy one am ramblings! there is a very high probability of me going back and rewriting/editing out a lot of this, so consider this the "director's cut" of something yet to be written. 
> 
> there were a lot of elements to this story i included because i personally was really intrigued by and wanted to get down in writing, but i know how it might negatively impact the fluency and general characterization of the final project. i wrote this more for myself and as an exploration of yasha's character than anything else. she's a very complex individual with traits that can be interpreted a lot of different ways, and i wanted to get a better handle on how her voice and behavior manifested themselves in my own writing before using her as a character more. 
> 
> thus, this gratuitous 8600 word angst-fest/porn/character study was born! i'm very aware the style and subject matter isn't everyone's cup of tea, but thanks to everyone who got through it and enjoyed. i look forward to improving and writing more in the future :)
> 
> find me on tumblr @technicolortidepods, if you feel so inclined


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